


Monster

by levicas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levicas/pseuds/levicas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You're enjoying this, aren't you?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

_"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"_

The old woman had wept as she'd relayed his enemy's taunts. Her life had been in danger, but he'd been too busy joining the dots to pay her much thought. Blood singing in his veins, heart beating fast and brain buzzing with adrenalin as he worked to solve the puzzle. Perhaps if he'd had some ounce of shame - for the enjoyment, the blissful, perverse satisfaction he got from the game - she wouldn't have died. Twelve people wouldn't have died. Or perhaps it didn't matter at all.

Twelve people dead in gas explosion. He almost rolled his eyes as the report played itself on the television screen. How many more similar explosions would it take before everyone opened their eyes? _Not_ , in fact, a gas explosion. Instead, a series of warnings. 

He fought back the urge to pick at his own skin.

He had become arrogant. Two puzzles he'd solved well within the time limit, and he'd been so sure of his ability to add this one to the list. He'd been cutting it fine, admittedly, but he'd had other things to get on with. He'd pushed the blind old woman to the back of his mind. She'd have been fine if she'd just --

He'd repeated the sentiment to himself several times over. _It was her own damn fault._ If she had just listened to him, not said a word about his enemy, just told him where she was --

Or maybe not. Maybe he'd have killed her anyway, just to prove a point. 

There had been no guarantee he'd play by the rules.

"Whole block of flats," John murmured, mournfully shaking his head. Sherlock thought there might have been tears in his eyes. Twelve people dead, just like that. And John felt each of their deaths as if he'd known them personally, and cherished them.

But Sherlock himself felt nothing. Nothing at all. A numbness deep inside his chest, perhaps, but that was always there. More profound now, what with his failure. But not an ounce of remorse. No guilt. No sadness. Nothing. He was totally vacant. He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

He should feel...something, shouldn't he? A normal person would. John felt everything. Sometimes Sherlock thought he felt enough for the both of them. 

But then John would look at him, glare at him, really, and the hole inside of him would grow larger. Regular people might be boring, but they were content with being so. They held their emotions so close to them, like an embrace. He'd always pushed all that away. Eventually, it had stopped coming back. His mind was less cluttered now, but still sometimes he wondered...

What had he become? Where was his humanity, his soul? Had he accidentally misplaced it? That had never been his intention. He'd just meant to lay it aside for a while, it clouded his perception too much. It had never occurred to him that he might not be able to find it again. Best not to think about it. Better to just forget that he'd once had the ability to be equally as boring as everybody else.

"Well, obviously I lost that round. Although, technically I did solve the case." He switched off the television. Hearing about the twelve dead made him feel itchy, like he should be carving himself out of his skin, just to feel the pain.

John looked at him, eyes all wide and disdainful. Disappointed. To John, this was a time for grief. A time to sit back and regroup and honour the dead. But that was boring, and Sherlock's mind wasn't very good at staying still. It raced away from pain at a million miles a minute. He couldn't linger in one spot for too long, or he'd be forced to face the reality that he didn't quite belong there.

Play the part, and play it well. 

Be the monster. The heartless sociopath who doesn't feel a thing. But if he didn't feel a thing, why did John's disappointment sit like an anchor in his stomach? Why did he loathe himself for the lack of regret he felt towards the old lady? Why was it he felt only bitterness at his opponent for not playing by the rules? That's not what a normal person would be upset about.

He'd malfunctioned. Somewhere, some time long ago. Had he ever even had a soul, or had he always been this cold? Thinking about it now, he couldn't recall.

All he could do was take every moment as it was laid before him, and hope. Hope to every God from every religion that John would never find out how truly broken he was. John, whole and kind and emotional John, would certainly resent him for it. 

To Sherlock, the game was always on again at a moment's notice.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing takes place about three seconds before Sherlock's "Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them" speech, and the argument preceding it. I thought it would be interesting to explore why Sherlock gets so defensive - poor thing can't understand his own emotions.


End file.
